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Matheran, 11th December 2011

They passed me by on horses in Matheran —
their eyes locked into each other,
unmindful of the sais leading them on
or the gilt-edged sunrise drowning them slowly,
or the bee-eaters darting, or even the macaques quarelling.

But I wonder where they're headed

— to an elopement, a temple wedding, a souring
marriage, a custody dispute, a cathartic divorce?

— to an engagement, a wedding with sangeet and
mehndi, school fees, wilting outside consulates,
an empty nest, a twilight of babysitting?

— to a break up, new relationships, nostalgia,
regrets and a fading away into Alzheimer's?

Or will they just go back, eyes looking ahead

at careers, salaries, taxes,
3 BHK flats, Euro III compliant cars,
always some few days away in a broad noon

that starlight having dimmed.

I cannot quite say. They've gone out of sight;
a group of boisterous boys arrives,
in their train - – another dozen thoughts.
I can't keep thinking all the time – so I
look back into my camera,
hunting paradise flycatchers with my viewfinder.

About Me

I'm someone, anyone; I might be Bachir Gemayel:
among guns and shells a Maronite; between powers a puppet - a pawn in a
Great Game; weak, then powerful; alive, then dead; somebody, anybody,
nobody. I might be someone else, I might be you, I might be a third
person; I might as well be Bachir Gemayel.